


Refreshed

by sabinelagrande



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 900th Work!!, Aftercare, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Furniture, M/M, Praise Kink, Service Submission, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Sweet/Hot, Tea Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:14:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: "Darling," Aziraphale says. "Make me a pot of tea."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 346





	Refreshed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Toft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/gifts).



Sometimes Aziraphale gets in a mood.

This mood has nothing to with being "moody" or having a mood swing. Crowley has his own moods, but he's now keenly attuned to Aziraphale's, if he can be said to be keenly attuned to anything.

"Darling," Aziraphale says. "Make me a pot of tea."

Crowley knows what's up immediately. Aziraphale often despairs of the fact that Crowley makes shitty tea. He's too impatient to let the water boil all the way, and he just throws a teabag in and calls it good. Thus, Aziraphale makes his own tea, though Crowley can be trusted with hot chocolate.

Crowley swallows. "How do you want me?"

"Naked, I should think," Aziraphale says. "Do be careful around the boiling water."

"Right," Crowley says, marching into the kitchen, his clothes evaporating behind him as he goes.

In the kitchen, Crowley takes a deep breath and lets it out. If he thinks about this too hard, he's going to seize up, stop doing it. Instead he takes the kettle and fills it, firing up the stovetop and putting it in its accustomed place. He takes down Aziraphale's favorite teapot, the one with a gold design on it that is faded with age. It doesn't get used much, because Crowley doesn't like tea; much simpler to make tea by the cup.

There's an after-market strainer that fits in the teapot, so Crowley puts it in. He looks carefully at the tins of loose-leaf tea that sit on the shelf, a thing Aziraphale can't stop buying even though they don't get used. Crowley is vaguely aware of the difference between them, meaning that he is aware that they are different colors. He tries to decide which one of them Aziraphale will want, what will please him the most, make him smack his lips happily when he sips it.

With his every breath he is thinking about Aziraphale. He is not thinking about the slight stickiness of the newly-cleaned floor underneath his bare feet. He is not thinking about the sound of the kettle beginning to boil. Even trying to pick out a tin of tea is just Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.

Crowley selects a tin of black tea and pretends he knows what it is. He can never remember how much to put in; it is helpfully written on the box, so he muddles through. Now he just has to wait for the kettle to finish boiling. He does it leaning from one side of the other, impatient.

It occurs to him that he hasn't done the rest of it, and he panics a little. He pulls down the tea tray and sets it down. Surely Aziraphale wants something with his tea; there are biscuits, those are always a hit with Aziraphale. Maybe he wants sugar, so Crowley puts that on there too, and a spoon, and he almost drops it when the kettle whistles. He snatches it up quickly, careful to heed Aziraphale's warning and not burn himself despite the fact it wouldn't burn him. He fills the teapot, and then realizes he still has another few minutes to wait.

He rearranges the biscuits, and the spoon, and the teacup that he also remembers Aziraphale probably needs. They aren't to his satisfaction, even when he adds an overly-cute napkin with some trim that matches the teapot, but hopefully it will satisfy Aziraphale. Nothing else matters but that.

Time is up, so Crowley pulls out the strainer and puts the lid on the teapot. There's a tea cosy and Crowley has no idea how to use it, so he just stares at the teapot and fucking _dares_ it to go cold, until the lid rattles in fear.

Right. Time to go.

Crowley carefully carries the tea tray back to the sofa, mindful of the fact that the teapot is heavy and the other stuff could slide around. He doesn't quite know what to say, so he just kind of pushes it out, like he's holding it for Aziraphale's inspection.

"What a darling you are, my love," Aziraphale coos, taking the tray, and Crowley's face goes blood-hot. "You've done all I've asked and more." He puts the tray on his lap and pours himself a cup, leaving Crowley just standing there waiting anxiously for approval, dying to know whether he's pleased Aziraphale or disappointed him. When it's like this, it gets all jumbled up, Crowley losing sight of any objective marker of success. It doesn't matter if he's done well; it matters if Aziraphale thinks he's done well.

Aziraphale takes a long sip, and Crowley lets out a breath when Aziraphale smiles at him. "Perfect, my dearest," he says. "You've done such a lovely job."

Crowley just kind of shifts on his feet; he's never known what to do with the praise part, but Aziraphale lives for it. He's tied Crowley up just to stroke his body slowly and tell him how good he is. Crowley doesn't even know if he hates or loves it, but he bends towards it, like a flower to the sun.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale says, and Crowley perks up, ready to jump into action. "It seems I have nowhere to put this tray."

Crowley only glares a little, because any protest won't fool either of them. This is the part that Crowley is better at; it clears his mind, lets him lose his focus and just be.

He goes to his knees by the couch, stretching out a little before he goes forwards onto his hands. He's not quite the right height for an end table, but they'll make do. All he really has to do is hold a tray, not a reading lamp or something.

Crowley lets his head hang, hearing the china clink together as Aziraphale moves the tray. Crowley braces, ready for it when Aziraphale puts the tray on his back. He can feel where the teapot is, the warmth of it through the tray; for anyone else it would be uncomfortably hot, but it makes no difference to Crowley.

He adjusts a little, trying to get the weight of the tray distributed properly, and he feels Aziraphale adjust it just so, getting it into the right place. Now Crowley can settle in, as he dearly wants to do.

He just stays there, listening to the gentle sounds of Aziraphale enjoying his tea, and it doesn't even feel kinky to him anymore, doesn't feel taboo in the slightest. He likes doing things because they're wrong, but this one he does because it feels right. He hasn't told Aziraphale this; he could never tell anyone this. He hopes Aziraphale understands anyway, or else it's just going to have to be Crowley's secret. 

Aziraphale puts down his teacup, and Crowley makes a noise of satisfaction when he starts running his fingers through Crowley's hair. He strokes Crowley like you could a cat, a faithful dog, and Crowley eats it right up. It makes him feel so good, like it was worth it, like he's pleased Aziraphale deeply.

He can picture Aziraphale now, one hand with an open book, one hand on Crowley, and it touches him in a way that he can't explain.

It also touches him in a way he can explain. Doing for Aziraphale is not really sexual, not in the conventional sense; he doesn't get off on it, even though he finds it satisfying. Being Aziraphale's plaything, letting Aziraphale use him like furniture, just an object he owns, is sexual. Crowley feels like his whole body is dazed, like he's under a layer of warm fleece, but his cock is so hard it's dripping onto the floor beneath him. The touch of Aziraphale's hand only makes it better, and Crowley sighs, shakier than he thought he would but so satisfied, on several levels.

Time passes, and Crowley doesn't know how much. Finally Aziraphale's hand finds his neck, resting there, his little finger stroking over Crowley's hairline.

"You've been ever so good, darling," Aziraphale says. "I can't tell you how pleased I am." Crowley, admittedly, preens at the praise, but who wouldn't. "What do you want as a reward, my love?"

"Let me fuck you," Crowley says, barely above a mutter.

"That can be arranged," Aziraphale says, humor in his voice. The weight of the tray is lifted from his back, and Crowley hears the distant clink of china as it lands back on the kitchen counter. Crowley stretches his back like a cat, removing the stiffness from it. "You can get up, dear."

Crowley stands, looking at Aziraphale, who is currently laying his trousers on the sofa next to the rest of the clothes, because of course he is. He doesn't stop, taking his underthings off too, until he's naked in front of Crowley and completely unashamed of it.

Crowley could bend him over and fuck him hard, and Aziraphale would take it; that's the rule, that he can do whatever he wants. Sometimes he does take it out on Aziraphale, though he knows that's not how Aziraphale sees it. Aziraphale just wants to give back, not to get even but because he loves Crowley.

"Turn around," Crowley says. "Knees on the cushions." Aziraphale looks slightly confused, but he does it anyway. "Hands on the back of the sofa." He taps Aziraphale's hip. "Raise up."

Aziraphale hums in satisfaction as Crowley runs a hand over the curve of his full, round ass, a thing Crowley has appreciated many times over. His fingers find Aziraphale's hole, and Aziraphale gasps as Crowley presses in with two slick fingers. Crowley can't find it in himself to go any faster, to do anything but savor it. He rocks his fingers in and out, and Aziraphale pushes back against him, hungry, as he always is, for more.

Finally Crowley can't stand it anymore. In this position, it's nothing to move Aziraphale exactly where he wants him, just the right place to slide into him. Aziraphale moans in pleasure, his head going back as Crowley pushes inside.

"You like that?" Crowley says, and he can't decide whether he's mocking Aziraphale or begging for his approval.

"Yes," Aziraphale gasps. "Take me, dearest, I'm all yours."

Crowley groans, his hips working slowly as he fucks Aziraphale deep. Aziraphale's hands tighten on the back of the sofa as Crowley works, each languid thrust pushing the tension higher.

"Such a good boy," Aziraphale says, grinding back against Crowley. "Just like that, Crowley, give it all to me."

Crowley moves faster, but it's still slow, satisfying something deep in his core. At some later date he'll get his own back, but right now, this scratches the itch inside him. He wants to _worship_ Aziraphale, has been this whole time, wants to prove his devotion in a physical way, since he can't bring himself to say it out loud.

They stay there for an age. Crowley's not sure how long, because nothing is as important than tasting the clean sweat that gathers on Aziraphale's neck, stroking his cock in slow, lingering passes. Aziraphale sighs under him, peppering him with words of love and encouragement, until Crowley has to hide his face in Aziraphale's shoulder, unable to face the onslaught.

Aziraphale comes first, but he drags Crowley over with him, the two of them facing it together. Crowley lays messy kisses across Aziraphale's back, panting against his skin as he comes and comes.

Somehow they get untangled; this ends with Aziraphale on the sofa with Crowley sitting side-saddle in his lap, even though Crowley is much too tall for it. He moves Aziraphale's clothing so he can stretch his legs out, which is more comfortable, like Aziraphale is just sort of propping him up as he sits.

Or something.

"That was just lovely," Aziraphale says, taking Crowley's hand and kissing his knuckles. "I had such a marvelous time."

"Mmm," Crowley says.

"I'll take that as agreement," Aziraphale says.

"Mm-hm," Crowley says, pressing his face into Aziraphale's neck, because they both know he can barely talk about this kind of thing under normal circumstances; he doesn't stand a chance in the afterglow.

"You really are a marvel, my darling," Aziraphale says, stroking his hair, and Crowley burrows into him, all but purring when Aziraphale runs his hands through his hair. "But you are not unlike a big cat."

Crowley shrugs and settles in. He's been called much worse.

Aziraphale raises his hand and pulls down, and a blanket obediently falls across the two of them. They have, as Crowley often notes, a ridiculous number of these blankets, which Aziraphale conjures and then can't bear to get rid of. This does not stop him from doing it again, but right now it feels nice, toasty warm while he cuddles up to Crowley.

"I love you," Aziraphale says, his lips brushing Crowley's temple. "You cannot imagine how much I love you, Crowley."

"You too," Crowley manages to say, very quietly.

Aziraphale sighs in satisfaction, as if Crowley has shouted it from the windows. He turns Crowley's face towards him and kisses him softly, just once, before he lets Crowley go again to stroke his hair, the shell of his ear.

Crowley falls asleep, safe and cozy. Aziraphale worries for a moment that he'll be out for two weeks or more, but right now, that seems fine. He just holds Crowley close and lets everything else fall away.


End file.
